


Too Too Solid Flesh

by kathryne



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-21
Updated: 2010-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 17:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"O, that this too too solid flesh would melt / Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!" - <em>Hamlet</em>, I.ii.  The Doctor, at the end of "Forest of the Dead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Too Solid Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt by [bendingwind](http://bendingwind.livejournal.com) at Spoilers! A River Song Ficathon:  
> _loneliness like this can only be a punishment for what he did on Gallifrey, he thinks as he sits in the Library after they have all gone. Maybe he'll accidentally remain just long enough for the Vashta Nerada to return and relieve him of this painful flesh._

His vision came back slowly. Dark afterimages danced across his eyes, burnt into his retinas by the flare of brilliant white light. They swam in front of him, galaxies in negative, like shadows of stars he had once watched die.

The blast had shaken the entire room, probably the entire planet. His screwdriver still lay just out of reach, but hers had come to rest against his outstretched foot. He couldn't bear to touch it yet, couldn't bear to look.

So many people had died today, people he had genuinely liked, even if he'd known them only a few hours. Proper Dave, Other Dave, Miss Evangelista, Anita: he hadn't been smart enough, hadn't _known_ enough to save them. Four more weights to hang against the balance of his soul in the end.

And her.

It had been mere days or millennia or no time at all since he'd lost Gallifrey. He still felt the dissonance of the time cannons shivering through his bones on quiet nights. In that moment, so long ago and yet omnipresent, he had let go of everything, forsaken all he had. His home, his family, his lovers and enemies and untold aeons of tradition. His language had died that day along with some of the greatest works of literature the universe had ever seen.

He had abandoned it all, then, everything that was him, consigned it to memory and myth and rumour. And now, here, in this storehouse of all the universe's knowledge from which Gallifrey had been ruthlessly excised, to find someone who knew his name...!

To find her, only to lose her again.

He turned his head, finally, to see what was left of her after she had stolen the fate meant for him. It wasn't as bad as he feared, and yet it was worse. The pathways of her brain had burnt out, but the damage was all internal. She wasn't maimed or disfigured, but the sight of that expressive face, empty of all the mischief he had already begun to warm to, almost undid him.

It should have been him, he knew. He _would_ have had a chance – albeit infinitesimal, but a chance she never had. And he not survived, it would have meant not the loss of a vibrant life, but the disappearance of an anachronism.

His hearts thumped painfully in his chest. Would he always be paying for his actions at Gallifrey? Was he destined never to be free of the pain and responsibility, but to relive it, feeling that loss again and again, always alone? All the possibilities that she had contained, all of the future she had teased him with, they were gone too, he thought, as lost to him as his home. Because how could he ever look at her again, knowing how he had lost her, and not feel as empty as he did now? She would only be another in his long list of failures. She deserved better than that.

His fingers closed around the slightly unfamiliar shape of her screwdriver. As he brought it up to release the handcuffs, he thought he caught a hint of the spicy scent that had clung to her hair. He shook his head, dismissing it, and undid the lock.

He stood and took two long strides over to her body – if only he'd gotten free in time! He tugged the ugly metal restraints away from her head and body and brushed his fingers across her staring eyes, closing them.

"River," he whispered. "I'm sorry." Turning, he picked up her diary along with his screwdriver, but didn't bother to open it. Time could be rewritten, he knew it. If he had to lose every page of that diary, he would rewrite this day, make it up to her, make it right.

If they never met, she could never sacrifice herself for him.


End file.
